SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV (3 page)

Nolan darted a fast look over the edge to see the remaining two fighters had crawled out and were sheltering behind the wreckage at the front of their truck. He knew that at the other side of the vehicle, Boswell’s squad was deployed behind cover, waiting for the enemy to arrive.

Jesus, what a situation! One grenade and they’ll be finished. And the missile shooter is among them, loaded for bear.

He keyed his mic.

“This is Nolan. You guys have two hostiles right behind that truck. They’re about to attack, and one of them is holding the RPG.”

There was a stunned silence, and then Lucas Grant replied. “Can you get to them? If we throw a grenade this close, we’ll all go up with it.”

“That’s a negative. I can’t see them. They’ve got in behind cover,” Nolan answered. One of the men looked up and raised his Sig, but he ducked back down inside the shelter of the wreckage. The shooter with the RPG showed himself for a second, too quick and too far away for an accurate pistol shot. But his intentions were obvious; he was preparing to fire, maneuvering himself into a good position. The other fighter was behind him, arming the missile. They were about to shoot into the guts of the wrecked truck so they’d send themselves to paradise and destroy everything, Boswell’s squad included.

“Vince, can you see them? They’re about to blow themselves up, and the rest of our guys will go with them.”

“Negative, Chief. I can just about make out a patch of their clothing, maybe two yeah, but it’s not a clear shot. I can maybe wing them, that’s about all. It’s a risk.”

“Take the shot, and don’t miss. Do it, Vince, now!”

The two shots rang out. Vince had removed the sound suppressor for maximum accuracy and velocity. There were two simultaneous yelps of pain and surprise, and Nolan was up and running, straight for the wrecked truck. He rounded the twisted, burning remains and there they were, both men bleeding profusely from Vince’s bullets. One round had entered the left femoral artery of the missile shooter; the other fighter had taken a hit to his right elbow. They were painful wounds, and both men were screaming in pain and anger. He put them both out of their misery. It was no time for fancy shooting. They were jigging around, a mixture of pain and fear, and he hit them with three bullets each to the chest. They went down dead, and seconds later Boswell, Grant, and the rest of the men rounded the side of the truck. Boswell stared at the bodies on the ground and then looked at Nolan.

“You okay, Chief?”

“Yeah, no sweat.”

Boswell nodded. “You called it right, thanks. But I’ll have a word with Dan Moseley. He should know he can’t talk to me like that.”

Nolan nodded. “Yeah, it’s a real bastard, being insulted by someone who’s saving your life. My advice, Lt, is to let it go.”

He saw Grant’s lips twitch in a smile. Boswell nodded thoughtfully and looked at his number two man in the Platoon. Nolan made him nervous, that was obvious, but whatever the reason, he couldn’t fathom what it could be. Except perhaps that he towered over the smaller man. Chief Petty Officer Kyle Nolan was tall, six-one, and lean, with the kind of features some people called chiseled. At first, people saw him as almost bland, but not all. More than one girlfriend had told him he reminded them of a young Clint Eastwood; a compliment he’d always accepted with some grace, even if they were plain loco. His angular face was again considered almost average, at first sight. But his strong chin and piercing eyes, the color of a clear, deep blue sky, were a hint that the man they belonged to was anything but normal. Despite his blue eyes, he had thick, dark brown hair, which some people found strange, but women frequently found attractive. But more than anything, it was probably the way he carried himself, a confidence, a strength and grace, which hid an inner core of hard, spring steel. Boswell hoped to acquire the same qualities but probably never would, although the men generally did their best to help and support him until he reached his goal. Or died in the attempt, but that was a risk they all took. The Lieutenant nodded.

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll let it go this time, but…”

He stopped, as the voice of their surveillance controller broke into their communications net. The unarmed Lockheed P-3 Orion was a four-engine turboprop surveillance aircraft, widely used in American theaters of war for its ability to loiter over a battlefield for up to ten hours at a time. Right now, it was circling in support of their mission a few kilometers distant, safe inside Afghan airspace.

“Bravo One, we have a drone report just in. They’ve sighted suspected hostiles emerging from the town of Parachinar. We estimate their number at one hundred. I say again, one hundred.”

They swiveled around to survey the landscape and to check out the nearby town. It was too far away, and the ground was too undulating to see anything clearly, but the dust cloud swirling toward them was enough confirmation. The Taliban were coming, and this time in greater numbers.

Boswell reacted fast, rapping out orders. He tended to raise his voice to overcome his obvious feelings of some kind of physical shortcoming.

It’s a pile of crap,
Nolan considered to himself.

He was not a significant looking guy, pale and of less than medium height; there was little of the macho cowboy in the Harvard educated Lieutenant, with his blonde hair and neat, clipped mustache. As a result, the image he presented to the world was of a rather preppy looking senior clerk, maybe a junior attorney. But he was a Navy Seal platoon leader, and for most men it would be enough, more than enough. He just hadn’t realized it yet. Nolan turned his attention to the Lieutenant.

“We need to clear the area. There are too many of them if they catch us here out in the open. You have to prepare the Platoon to move out, and we’ll find a better defensive position.” Boswell stared at him, uncertain, but Nolan ignored him and replied to the Orion. “Control, we require exfil ASAP. Send in the helos right away.”

Boswell nodded. It made sense to get out. They’d carried out their mission with no loss of life, so it was time to bail. Except that the Orion crew had other ideas.

“Negative, Bravo. The images show those hostiles equipped with RPGs. We can’t send in helos until they’re taken care of. They’d be sitting ducks on the ground.”

Nolan tried again. “Do you have air support in the area? Anything we can use?”

They could all hear the controller’s irritation. “Bravo, you’re in Pakistan. We can’t overfly the country without the permission of the Pakistan military, and we don’t have time to ask them.”

“What about a drone?”

“Well, it was a drone that spotted them, but it’s unarmed. Look, we have enough trouble with the Pakis, without shooting up the country with Reapers. Sorry, Bravo, you’re on your own.”

Nolan saw Boswell’s expression darken, and the Lieutenant took over.

“Feller, listen up. This is Lieutenant William Boswell, United States Navy. Now you get off your ass and mention that name to your commanding general back at Bagram. He’s an uncle of mine, and he likes to look out for his nephew. For some reason, he gets mighty angry if he thinks people are fucking with him. Or do you want him to find out how you refused to offer assistance to your own people, and maybe got some of them killed? What’s it going to be? Do we get some air support, or are you looking for a new job sweeping the tarmac in some Godforsaken airfield in the far north of Alaska?”

There was a long silence. The controller came back.
              

“Hang on there, pal, wait up. We have a pair of A-10 Thunderbolts looking for some trade. I can arrange for them to lose their way and detour over the border. I mean, it’s unauthorized, but I’ll support you any way I can.”

“That’s good, Mister, you’d better vector them our way. How long before they can get to us?”

“I estimate they’ll be with you in ten minutes, give or take. Can you hold until then?”

“We’ll be fine, but you’d better make sure they’re no more than ten minutes,” Boswell replied.
 

“Copy that, Bravo. Before you sign off, I want you to stay to the south of the hostiles. I repeat, stay to the south. I’ll order the Thunderbolts to attack the large group of insurgents north of your position and closest to the town of Parachinar, so we don’t get any foul-ups.”

“Understood.”

Boswell stared around at the squad. Vince and Dan had come up and joined them. Boswell gave Dan a sour look and then ignored him.

“We’ll find a new position to cover those hostiles, somewhere that’ll give us a good field of fire. Chief, we’ll form a blocking force to prevent them getting too near. If we keep them boxed up, it’ll make the job that much easier for the A-10s.”

Nolan nodded his approval. “It’s a plan, Lt.”

“It will be if those A-10s turn up on time. Let’s move out. We’ll find suitable ground and take up new positions.”

They grabbed their gear and started moving at a tangent, off on the flank of the enemy approaching from the town. The dust cloud had resolved itself much as they’d been advised; a large group of men, heavily armed with a collection of Soviet, Chinese, and even American made weaponry, and all of them thirsting for vengeance. Nolan could easily make out four RPGs, together with numerous AK-47s, AK-74s, and a few M-16s, probably stolen. Somewhere in that group they’d no doubt have at least a couple of light machine guns, as well as a sniper or two. The Taliban learned fast, and they’d employed long-range snipers to deadly effect, their weapon of choice being the venerable British .303 caliber Lee-Enfield. The solid old rifle was heavy, basic, and easy to maintain in the field. The sniper variant was also deadly accurate in use, as many ISAF troops had found to their cost. Nolan walked close to Boswell, constantly surveying the ground around and ahead of them. He caught the Lieutenant’s attention.

“This should be near enough. Any closer and they’ll see what we’re up to. There’re enough of them to come around on our flank and do some damage.”

Boswell grunted in agreement. “You’re right. We’ll deploy half the men in the rocks the other side of the drainage ditch. Split the men and keep the other half this side and stagger their positions. I don’t want anyone caught in our own crossfire.”

Nolan managed to keep his cool. “Yeah, I got it.”

Yeah, I’d never have worked that one out. But the guy is trying, and I have to cut him some slack.
He noticed the amused twitch again from Grant.
Is the Seal Team Six guy grinning at our rookie Lieutenant, or at me for having to swallow his shit? Maybe the guy is just trying to keep sane like the rest of us.

Nolan ordered the men to their positions, and half of them took cover among the uneven piles of rock littering the ground the other side of the ditch. All the while, Nolan could see the crowd of hostiles getting nearer. It was eerie. They were keeping up a fast pace, but they made no noise. There was no shouting, no curses, no threats, nothing. He felt uneasy, but he couldn’t explain why.

Maybe I’m just tired.

He checked his watch, five minutes before the A-10s arrived. It was going to be a close run thing. He’d need to keep those hostiles well away from their position, and by definition, well away from the incoming fire from the ground attack aircraft. The Fairchild Republic A-10 Thunderbolt had achieved almost legendary status in the Iraq campaign. It was an American single-seat, twin-engine jet aircraft, developed by Fairchild-Republic in the early 1970s. Intended to stay in service for at least another fifteen years, it had proved itself devastating in use against ground troops and armor.

The A-10s armament was a single gun, but it was no ordinary gun. The General Electric GAU-8 Avenger was a 30mm hydraulically driven seven-barrel Gatling cannon that was mounted exclusively on the Thunderbolts. The GA Avenger was one of the largest, heaviest, and most powerful aircraft cannons in the United States military arsenal. Designed primarily for the anti-tank role, the Avenger delivered very heavy, powerful rounds at a high rate of fire. The result was awesome, total devastation wherever it was employed. Nolan fully intended to keep his people as far away from the target area as possible. The A-10 took no prisoners. He made a final check of their positions, glancing back up the road to the approaching enemy.

What the hell are they doing? If I were in command of that warband, I wouldn’t bunch up like that. It’s an invitation to get shot to pieces, and the Taliban are anything but stupid. What gives? This is wrong, all wrong!

He glanced over at PO1 Will Bryce, the mainstay of the Platoon through countless missions.

“Will, does this look right to you?”

Bryce shook his head. “It sure don’t smell right. What are they up to? Committing suicide? They know we’re here, and they must know we’ll call in air support, Pakistan or no Pakistan. It’s like they have a death wish.”